


Meet Me Halfway

by callmelyss



Category: Star Wars Sequel Trilogy
Genre: Anal Sex, Attempt at Humor, Blow Jobs, Darth Tantrum and his Evil Space Ginger, Enemies to Lovers, First Time, Fluff, M/M, Mild Angst, Praise Kink, The Author Regrets Everything, Touch-Starved, Vignettes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-25
Updated: 2018-03-25
Packaged: 2019-04-08 00:25:53
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,515
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14093001
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/callmelyss/pseuds/callmelyss
Summary: “I don’tdothat,” Hux responds in an undertone before he realizes. He flushes—hard—and scowls. “If that will be all, Supreme Leader…” He turns on his heel without waiting to be dismissed and starts to stalk back the way he came, grateful, as ever, for the wide sweep of his greatcoat, the padded shoulders making him feel less—small.He’s halfway out of the room (and what a waste of space) when what he said must catch up with Ren: “You mean you…never?”He freezes, every muscle in his body tensing. Won’t say it out loud.No, he emphasizes, clear as he can. Knowing Ren will hear, knowing he will see it regardless, terrible nosy busybody that he is.I haven’t.





	Meet Me Halfway

**Author's Note:**

> Some explanation:
> 
> As you may know, Star Wars comic writer Gary Whitta made the suggestion on the Twitter that [ Hux may be a virgin.](https://twitter.com/garywhitta/status/975798816862388224) Now, I don't necessarily see this as canon and I'm not especially interested in that debate. (I don't do discourse.)
> 
> But because I'm trash, my immediate reaction to the discussion was: that's definitely worth a ficlet. So I scribbled one out, threw it at Tumblr, and went on my merry way.
> 
> Except...one ficlet became two and then three and then six. Because it turns out I had many more thoughts about the nature of intimacy than I originally realized. Also, I decided I didn't _really_ want to just make virginity the punchline of a joke. 
> 
> So, this is a bit different from my other stories, in part because it is unrepentant soft kylux and because it was written serially over the course of the past week, mostly during my morning commute. I haven't fussed with it much, because I want to stay true to the manner in which it came about.

 

**One**

“You sent for me, Supreme Leader?” Hux asks. Pausing, wary, before approaching Ren’s throne, traversing the long walkway leading up to it. Hating the way he has to crane his neck when he gets close. The way he used to with Snoke. That’s intentional, no doubt.

“Yes, General,” Ren says. “I thought you might want to show some respect.” Glowering down at him through that mop of dark hair. He’s wearing only a robe, but then, it is 0200. Most people on the _Finalizer_ are only wearing robes…or less than that. 

Hux, meanwhile, is back in his uniform, summoned from his bed on a whim.

Ren’s taken to doing that, requesting his presence at odd times, throwing him off balance, interrupting his brief leisure time, his rest periods.

(Not that he was sleeping. Rather, he had been lying awake. Plotting Ren’s demise. Which he does instead of sleep now.)

_But what is he going on about? Respect?_

“I’ve been respectful,” Hux protests. _Mostly_ , he amends. Missing, at first, the shift in his posture, the perceptible way Ren’s widened his legs. An invitation. Perhaps an expectation. “Wait. You want me to—?”

“Isn’t that what you do?” he leers at him. Hideous expression, especially with that scar. “I’ve heard the stories about you, General.”

Well, of course, there had been _stories_. There are always stories about powerful people. Spread by jealous naysayers. There was that one about the Queen of Balosaur and her…

“So you didn’t—?” Ren’s asking. Lascivious tone vanished. Disbelieving now. “With Snoke?”

“ _With Snoke?”_ he nearly shrieks. “Kriff, Ren, he wasn’t even human!”

“Well, I mean…”

“He was ten feet tall. He was… _rotting_. Ugh!” He’s not sure he won’t be sick.

“You were panting for him in every other respect,” Ren mutters. Hair fully obscuring his face now. 

“I don’t _do_ that,” Hux responds in an undertone before he realizes. He flushes—hard—and scowls. “If that will be all, Supreme Leader…” He turns on his heel without waiting to be dismissed and starts to stalk back the way he came, grateful, as ever, for the wide sweep of his greatcoat, the padded shoulders making him feel less—small.

He’s halfway out of the room (and what a waste of _space_ ) when what he said must catch up with Ren: “You mean you… _never_?”

He freezes, every muscle in his body tensing. Won’t say it out loud. _No,_ he emphasizes, clear as he can. Knowing Ren will hear, knowing he will see it regardless, terrible nosy busybody that he is. _I haven’t_.

Waits for the inevitable taunting. Always that, until he learned to lie about it.

Instead: _Me either._

 _That_ startles him. Ren has no qualms about reading his mind, he’s well aware, but he rarely communicates with him this way, not even to punish him. Hux always assumed it took too much effort to be worth the bother. Or else that it felt too intimate. Stars know it feels entirely too intimate to have Kylo Ren rummaging around his head like it’s an old footlocker on a daily basis.

That does leave the _content_ of said communication, however. 

Well, if Phasma were still here, she wouldn’t be surprised. He might even owe her some credits, if memory serves.

He nods once at Ren’s admission without looking at him and then moves to keep walking. 

“Hey, Hux,” Ren says. Stopping him again. “Um. I’m human.”

He turns to gape at him, certain he’s reached new heights of obviousness with that declaration. Bites back a cutting remark about requiring proof. Finds that Ren’s descended his throne, is only twenty or so paces away, staring at him, like he so often does.

But he’s looking at him now with…it’s unusually hard to read his face, even at this distance. Not the old animosity. _Interest_. “You know…if you…we could…”

And Ren. Infuriating, difficult, inconvenient, _destructive_ Ren with his wild hair and stupidly soft eyes and off-putting, slashing mouth and broad chest is offering...

Something strange happens to Hux. His skin goes hot, then cold. He shivers; the hairs on the back of his neck stand up. He… _wants_? “I, ah,” he says. Flustered. Certain this is a terrible idea. And yet. “Give me—an hour?”

 _What,_ Phasma’s ghost mocks. Probably laughing her shiny metal ass off somewhere. _Going to go make a 10-point presentation, Armitage?_ _Take a course? Read a pamphlet?_

 _Shut up_ , he thinks. And also: _yes_.

He has research to do.

* * *

 

 

**Two**

Kylo arrives at Hux’s door at 0300, as requested. In truth, he’s passed it six times in the intervening hour as he paced the ship, which is quiet but not empty. He startled more than one member of the late shift with his sudden appearance.

“Come in,” Hux calls when he buzzes. He’s standing in his front room, data pad in hand, still in his uniform, although the boots and greatcoat are missing. 

And unexpected that _that’s_ what kicks the reality of this moment into Kylo’s gut, the sight of _Hux_ in _sock feet_.

(He didn’t think—really—that his proposition would be accepted earlier. Not when he was sitting on the throne, taunting Hux, and not again when they were standing on the walkway. Had been shocked to feel the ripple of _desire_ from the General, where only disdain existed before. The switch was so abrupt that Kylo had had to pause and confirm he hadn’t accidentally dumped his own wishes into the man’s mind. But he hadn’t known—about Hux—either. And, well, that’s why they’re here.)

He clears his throat. “Have a seat, please.” 

Kylo obliges him. Resists the urge to pick at his tunic and avoid eye contact.

For a moment, they just stare at each other, dread echoing between them until Kylo wants to shout at him to just stop it, please, he’ll go. Then Hux takes a deep breath, runs his hand through his hair—messier now than it had been an hour ago, probably from that very gesture, repeated—and sits next to him, their knees angled inward. 

“So, I’ve been doing some reading.”

“Reading,” Kylo echoes.

“Yes, from the medical database and...there was a manual, too, distributed in the stormtrooper program years ago.” He hands the pad over. Their fingers don’t touch.

“‘How to Have Safe and Healthy Fun with Your Teammates,’” Kylo reads. Raises an eyebrow. “There are diagrams.”

Hux reddens. “Yes, well. _I_ didn’t write it. Obviously. And now we try to discourage— _that_.” 

 _That,_ indeed. He wants to ask how Hux, who’s lived in the world much more than Kylo has, has managed to elude this particular experience. Or it elude him. But he suspects that would derail whatever’s not yet happening before it even starts. He had a glimpse when they were talking before: of unfulfilled promises, missed liaisons, the cultivation of a certain reputation, and eventually the life of a man apart. Both of them like that now.

(Maybe he doesn’t need to ask.)

So instead he says, “We don’t have to...” Makes a vague motion. 

He coughs. “No, I imagine, we wouldn’t—tonight—that is, maybe if you wanted to work up to it—we could—discuss—”

Kylo’s not thinking of anything in particular when he reaches out to touch him, only maybe, that he would like to quiet that stammering if he could and stop the accompanying spikes of anxiety (which are slamming him in the temple). So he puts one gloved hand on Hux’s arm to still him.

They both jump.

He can probably count on ten fingers the times he’s touched Hux—or vice versa. Mostly aggressive pushes of a shoulder or elbow. Of course, there was Starkiller, but he doesn’t remember much of that. Thinks the General may have taken his pulse at the wrist. Sometimes he dreams he caressed his face, but that definitely never happened.

He drags his thumb over Hux’s arm. Leather on fabric—the slight _shushing_ sound that makes. They both exhale, ragged. 

“Right,” Hux is saying under his breath. “Okay. That’s. Okay.” Brings one hand up towards Kylo’s cheek. Feints a few times before he actually makes contact. Kylo shudders ( _how long_ ) and Hux hesitates, drawing back. “Is that—sorry—”

He presses that retreating hand back against his skin, maybe a little too quickly. “No, it’s. It’s good.” Reaches over with two fingers to tuck the loose strands of Hux’s hair behind his ear.

It’s not Kylo’s first kiss. (It might be his fourth, depending on what counts.) He doesn’t think it’s Hux’s either, based on the angle and the absence of clacking teeth, squashed noses. Or maybe that’s just because he’s careful. And he is that. Meticulous, really. Testing out small adjustments against Kylo’s mouth, the tilt, how widely he opens for him, the application of tongue. (And of _course_ Hux kisses like he’s trying to discern a method.) It’s a little too wet and probably too uncertain to be objectively good, but Kylo doesn’t mind.

No, when Hux nips at his lower lip like that, _Kylo very much doesn’t mind_.

They part, both dragging the backs of their hands over their chins, wetting the leather of their gloves, looking at each other like a bomb might go off or, absurdly, like someone might burst in, ask them what the hells they’re doing. Like they’re not the two most dangerous men in the galaxy necking like scared teenagers.

Instead, Hux leans back in, looking at Kylo through those feathery lashes of his, the smallest question of _again?_ in his eyes.

And—again.

* * *

 

 

**Three**

Hux has always seen the value of information.

He knows his ship, the many miles of her; he knew Starkiller more intimately than he’s ever known another person; he knows the Order and all of its complex mechanisms. This serves him well.

But he values information about his enemies most of all; he keeps extensive files on anyone who might be a potential threat or obstacle. Easier that way to pinpoint weaknesses and orchestrate accidents. 

And while Supreme Leader Snoke posed a challenge with his mysterious origins, Hux has no such difficulties with Kylo Ren. There’s plenty of data.

Who his family is, of course, and his birth name. The particular faults in the Klyber crystal that powers his lightsaber. That he is allergic to a specific type of spiny sea urchin native to the South Seas of Naboo. (Which is also infuriatingly difficult to import.)

And that’s without the many years of direct observation to add to his calculations. He knows Ren’s mercurial temper, his sullen moods, his opaque way of speaking, his ferocious combat style—all of it.

He knows, now, too, that Kylo Ren is a _moaner_.

It probably shouldn’t surprise him that Ren is vocal in bed. He has almost no inhibitions the rest of the time. But he is usually at least _taciturn_. Reserved—if in a completely useless way.

Just not, as it happens, when Hux is mouthing at the head of his cock, slurping a little at the slit, licking down the side, tracing the vein there with his tongue. _That,_ in fact, makes Ren moan fit to rattle the walls.

(He has not yet told him to be quiet. Would never admit he finds the noises fascinating. And flattering. Although probably anyone doing this would be able to accomplish the same.)

Hux lifts his head, peering at Ren from where he’s sprawled, shirtless, between his shaking thighs. They’re in his bed, have been meeting in his rooms every week or so for the past month. Unraveling this or conquering it, Hux can’t quite say.

“Good?” he asks.

They’ve developed this habit somewhat unconsciously since that first night— _is this all right, does that feel good, are you, is it, okay?_ It would be tiresome if he didn’t genuinely want to know.

(It’s just more data, he tells himself. That’s all any of this is.)

“So good,” Ren agrees, looking down at him. Chest heaving. Eyes a little wild.

That settled, Hux returns his attention to his cock, lapping at it again before taking as much of it into his mouth as he can without gagging. It is…not an unimpressive specimen. 

And that’s just one more addition to the great heap of cosmic injustices regarding Kylo Ren. Of _course_ , he’s well-endowed, too.

“You have a perfectly nice dick,” Ren huffs, before letting loose another long moan. “Stop complaining.”

It’s a challenge to glare at him with a cock in his mouth, but Hux manages. (Tries, too, not to be pleased at the compliment.)

The matter of ever taking said impressive specimen— _that_ question he will leave for another day. He wants to master this first.

He works one hand around the base as he bobs his head, slowly, eliciting a string of curses in a language he doesn’t recognize. ( _Sith?_ ) Reaches down, tentative, curious, to tug Ren’s balls with the other.

A _yelp_ from the Supreme Leader is the only warning he gets before he has a mouthful of come. And what he can’t catch in his mouth ends up on his face. Also his chest. 

Hux swallows what he can, wipes his lips, and leans up on his palms. Admiring the deep red flush spreading across Ren’s skin. How his head is thrown back, eyes closed, lips parted. _Now that…is a view_.

“Kriff, that was—” Ren says when he’s caught his breath. Stops, looking down at him. “Oh shit, Hux. Hang on.”

He doesn’t think he could convince himself of five years or even five weeks ago that at some point Kylo Ren would leap out of his bed and dash into his ‘fresher completely naked, but it’s just happened nonetheless. More surprising, maybe, that he returns with a wet cloth, sets to cleaning Hux up himself, brows furrowed with—surely not _concern_?—as he scrubs away the mess, shockingly gentle.

“Are you okay? You—can’t have liked that. I’m sorry.”

He considers this, cataloguing the sensations. It wasn’t as awful as he’d always assumed. “I…didn’t hate it,” he decides. “The texture leaves something to be desired.”

Also, the feeling of being dirty—like that. Well, it hadn’t been _bad_. Not at all. He might have enjoyed it, even. In this particular circumstance. 

Ren’s staring at him. His thumb rests heavy against Hux’s bottom lip. There’s a slight temptation to bite it, but instead, he waits, patient. Is only somewhat startled when Ren kisses the corner of his mouth and then licks away whatever come remained there. His nose presses into Hux’s cheek; he’s still looking at him. Unnerving when they’re this close.

Strong, sure fingers dip beneath the waistband of his pants. He sucks in a breath; Ren catches the exhale against his lips.

“Maybe you could show me.” he murmurs. “What it felt like.”

* * *

 

 

**Four**

Kylo should go. He will go. Soon.

He’s been trying to convince himself of that for the past thirty minutes, but he doesn’t move, if anything settles back into the pillows. Could blame Hux, if he chose, as he’s currently half-draped across Kylo’s chest, snoring gently.

He doesn’t take it personally, that he fell asleep in the middle. It happens.

They hadn’t been—they don’t always, that is. In fact, they’re still both mostly dressed, only boots and gloves and belts discarded before they’d slumped into Hux’s bed together, trading warm, lazy kisses and caresses.

(Strange: neither of them, really, can get enough of simple _touching_.)

Sometimes that’s all they do during these evenings. At first, it felt as though they might barrel towards the obvious conclusion, a quick casting off of what they’d both rather not keep, a mutual unburdening of sorts. Then, like they were deliberately checking items off a list (and he’s certain Hux has one somewhere, probably annotated), but it’s grown less linear, less methodical in the interim. They often double back to—this. 

He doesn’t know what will happen when they _do_ reach that obvious conclusion. They haven’t discussed it. For all that they dissect the rest of it— _did you notice_ and _that felt_ and _next time—_ they haven’t talked about that. Haven’t addressed, either, the unspoken truce in these rooms, or how it’s started to extend to their professional lives, too. He doesn’t think Hux has actively plotted to kill him for a few weeks at least, although he still dreams about it. Is now.

(And does the First Order know their fanatical General twitches in his sleep like that?)

Kylo should go. He cards his fingers through Hux’s hair instead—it’s almost soft like this at the end of the day—and lightly scratches his scalp. Regrets that this wakes him, but not the sensation of that long, lean body stretching against his.

“Pardon,” he yawns, blinking up at Kylo. “Mm, well hello, gorgeous.”

They both freeze. Hux because he’s horrified at the slip. Kylo because a not insignificant quantity of blood has just shot straight to his dick.

He _knows_ Hux finds him attractive, can’t imagine he would still be here if that weren’t the case, convenient or not, and has overheard him thinking on more than one occasion that Kylo is _fit_ , _arresting_ , _unfairly well built_ , etc.

Nonetheless, it’s something entirely different to _hear him say it_ —and so completely without artifice, without an ulterior motive, which is unusual in itself.

And Hux, not missing his reaction (he misses very little), raises both eyebrows, and Kylo can almost see him doing the quickest math in his head. “Oh, you don’t...? Hm. But you are— _gorgeous_ ,” he emphasizes this time, monitoring his response.

Kylo groans. “Fuck.”

Hux _grins_ , which is always slightly alarming as well as kind of a turn-on lately, and climbs more fully onto him, knees bracketing his hips, one hand on his chest, pressing him back against the bed. Leans down to whisper in his ear, “Beautiful.”

Kylo can’t help it—he bucks under him and moans. Which earns him a full onslaught in return: _so pretty, Ren_ , and _you should see yourself when you come, it’s magnificent_ and _lovely this way_ and _I want to touch you, may I touch you, Ren_.

“ _Yes_ ,” he gasps. “Yes, Hux, please, _please_. Stars, you’re good at this.”

And Kylo can _feel_ Hux’s cheek heat next to his own, the blush that he hates so much—also how his dick stiffens against his thigh. 

They pull back to stare at each other, noses almost touching. Yet another unarticulated moment of o _h, you too?_

And then they’re in motion, half fumbling out of clothing, hands everywhere they can reach, teeth dragging over exposed skin, Kylo’s moans, Hux’s softer whines, and running through all of it an uninterrupted exchange of: _incredible, just incredible_ and _fuck, your mouth is so—_ and _hells, you’re brilliant_ and _that’s perfect, you are, perfect, beautiful, perfect._

It’s fast; it often is. It’s also sloppy, slick trails of spit and come, the sheets a disaster and both of them, too. Not unlike the first time they both came, mostly by rutting together, barely more than a dry hump, half-dressed and shivering at every touch and so very mortified. 

Except: not mortified this time, two months later, the word _perfect_ quivering between them like a living thing and never mind the list for the moment, the obvious conclusion, any of it. They sink back down, heedless of the mess, kissing again, still mumbling praise against each other, not quite able to stop now that they’ve started.

* * *

 

 

**Five**

“There?” Ren is asking.

“Oh _kriff_ ,” Hux moans. Clenching around two of those thick fingers. “Yes, _there_ , right there.”

It’s taken them some time to work up to this point—three months exactly—and now he’s wondering why they waited so long when it feels so fucking _good_. He practically arches off the bed after Ren adds a third finger, bright color bursting behind his eyelids.

Yes, yes, much more of this, Hux decides, unashamed of his own whimpering, his leaking cock. Despite what it undoubtedly means for what’s—next. 

Because he’s still not sure any of this is enough preparation for Ren to fuck him, which has been worrying him lately. It seems certain he’ll do himself some injury no matter how careful they are or however many holonet articles he reads on the subject. 

These past months have not been without incident, including a sprained wrist (Hux’s), a pulled hamstring (Ren’s), no few unintentional scrapes and bruises, at one point unfortunately _extensive_ rug burns, and of course The Incident itself, of which they do not speak, during which certain body parts collided with certain other participants’ noses, resulting in a truly erection-slaying gush of blood and two black eyes. (The medbay records are sealed.)

“You promised you’d stop thinking about that,” Ren chastises from where he’s kneeling between Hux’s legs. Then adds, casually, as though he’s not making the most wrongheaded suggestion of his life, “And if you’re so worried, why not fuck me first?”

There’s only one reasonable response—he laughs.

“Hux, I’m...not kidding.” Ren’s sitting back on his heels now, frowning at him, clever fingers withdrawn. 

He shifts back against the pillows, staring. “Kylo. You _do not_ mean that.”

“Why not? You decided this was only going to go one way, not me.”

And, true, he _had_ always assumed Ren meant to fuck him, not—but—

“I can’t.”

“Why not?” Ren repeats. Impatient. Then, unsure, “Do you not want—?”

 _Do you not want me_ , that old anxiety.

“No—I—of course—I just can’t.” He flushes.

“That’s not an answer.”

“Because I—”

“What?”

“ _Because I’ve been plotting to murder you, you great bollocking idiot,_ ” Hux shouts, louder than he means to, because how _Ren_ could trust _him_ with _that_ , and how could either of them surrender that much power to another person for that matter; it has to be impossible, _is_ , this whole endeavor one long exercise in futility, he sees it now.

And Ren, Ren fucking _smiles_ at this admission. “Have you really. I had no idea.”

He glares, drawing his knees up to his chest. _Arrogant prick and his bloody wizardry_. 

“Funny how you’ve had all these opportunities and haven’t done a damn thing.”

“I could—I _will_.” 

“Right. Of course. You’re just biding your time until you get what you want.”  

 _Fuck you_ doesn’t seem like an especially useful response here.

Ren shakes his head. “You know. Um. You called me Kylo. Just now,” he says. Sounding—hopeful?

“My mistake.” Icily as he can.

“Hux.” Chiding him. “Please?”

He goes to him only somewhat reluctantly, lets Ren kiss him until he’s feeling calmer, less like he wants to bolt. Lets Ren, too, guide his fingers inside him, where they’d been earlier—before they switched places. He’s not as relaxed as he was, but it’s easy enough to stretch him, fingers crooked, teasing out a now-expected moan.

When that’s done, Ren moves to his back, hips lifted—spread ass on display—unconcerned, also hard, impressive cock curved towards his stomach. Hux swallows, his mouth suddenly dry ( _now?_ ) before settling between his splayed knees. Slicks himself. Ignores the way his hands are shaking when he sets them on those broad shoulders. “Right,” he says. “Okay. Right.” _Is this—do you really want me to—_

Ren nods.

He pushes in, slow, watching Ren’s face, the minute twitches and flinches there, the slight spasm of his eyebrows, the way his lips part, just so, as he draws in a harsh breath. And Hux stills, _all_ of him shaking, when he’s fully seated, the heat of Ren’s body around him, feeling strangely like he already knows this.

(But, then, it’s all like that now, isn’t it? Familiar. His smell, the taste of his skin, the browns and golds of his eyes. _Ren._ )

“Go ahead,” he says. Quiet. Shifting his hips under Hux.

He pulls back and thrusts, only somewhat hesitant, and they both groan at the friction. It’s ungainly and off rhythm, the way they move together at first, only falling into any recognizable tempo at the end, but Ren is moaning and pressing back against him, and Hux manages to pump him almost in time with his thrusts, keeping a hold of him even as his own release catches him off guard, and Ren follows a minute later, lovely in it as ever.

Afterward, he slides free as carefully as he can and collapses onto his side. Just breathing. Just. Sighs when Ren draws him against his chest, its rapid expansion and contraction at his back, and rests one hand over his ribs. Nuzzles at his hair, _soothing_ , as though _he_ , Hux, needs it, needs that—

(Although he does. He does.)

* * *

 

 

**Six**

Kylo might be in trouble.

He doesn’t know exactly how all this happened, has thought back to that conversation in his throne room often in recent weeks, trying to find the impetus. But he can’t, can’t articulate what he really wanted from Hux when he summoned him that night. His attention, maybe. To push his buttons. Make him twitch. That same vague desire to torment him he’d always had.

And if he had thought anything would happen between them, that it would be something short and brutal, cruel if possible, probably a rough fucking on his throne. 

(Although, if Hux is willing. They could. If.) 

Instead, _I don’t_ do _that—you’ve never—no—me either_. Instead, these rooms, this bed. Instead, Hux curled against him, drowsy or overwhelmed or _languid_ after they’ve practically talked each other into coming, almost vibrating from praise and light touches and humid kisses.

But now, now they’re on the verge of finishing this, whatever it is, and that question of _after_ still unasked, unanswered and he—

Teeth close bruising hard on Kylo’s nipple, jolting him out of his thoughts. “ _Fuck!_ ”

“ _Ahem_. Your attention, please.” Hux scowls down at him, one hand braced on Kylo’s chest, the other reaching behind him as he works himself open. Brow furrowed, mouth slack and red and slightly wet.

“ _Kriff_ , Hux, you have it. Here.” He leans up to kiss him, catching his small whines, swallowing them.

“Excellent.” He bites at Kylo’s lower lip. Looks him in the eye, that glass green. “Because I’m ready.” _For you to fuck me_.

Two sensations hit him simultaneously: more arousal than he’d previously thought possible. And dread. 

“Ah—right,” Kylo says. Voice raw. “Okay. Yes.”

Hux climbs off him, settling on his hands and knees in the middle of the bed. “It’ll be easiest this way, I believe,” he says. “Given the circumstances.”

He kneels behind him, admiring the arc of his spine, the curve of his ass. He’s trying to remember, again, how they got here, how that could have happened. Leans down to kiss Hux’s shoulder. Ghosts one hand along his belly, brushing his erection, feeling him tremble.

“And you’re sure—you want me to—you’re not—” _Worried_.

“Let me make it simple for you,” Hux says, glaring at Kylo over one shoulder. “Fuck me or I _will_ stab you.”

“Hux.”

“Fine, fine, fuck me and I _won’t_ stab you,” he tries, as though he’s making a concession.

“Isn’t that the same thing?”

“It is not, I assure you.” He clears his throat. “Please, Ren? I—” _I need you to._

And how could he refuse him now? Thinking, again, about how Hux shook when he did this for him. The expression on his face. 

Kylo grabs his hips, drawing him up and back, and Hux shifts onto his elbows, waiting. He _is_ ready, slick and pink, and it’d be easy for Kylo to fuck him, pliant and so willing and nearly gasping for it. He could, he could push into him, into that tight heat he’s felt with his fingers and tasted with his tongue more than once; he could fuck Hux into the bed like he wants, like they both want, the two of them quaking, halfway wrecked already. 

( _But then what_.)

Instead, he rolls him over, first onto his side, then onto his back. Feels Hux’s surprise when he sinks down on top of him, face buried in his narrow chest, arms curling under him, around his waist. He sighs into his skin.

“Kylo?” He skims one hand over his hair, that gesture automatic now. “Are you?” _Did I—_

He shakes his head.

Hypocritical as it is, it’s always made him uneasy communicating telepathically, knowing he might reveal something he’d prefer not to. “Control has never been his strong suit” being somewhat of a colossal understatement. (He had done it almost by accident that first night, the night in his throne room— _me either—_ and that feels like flinging himself into an abyss at the moment.) 

But the truth is he doesn’t want to let go of Hux right now and isn’t sure how to say out loud what he needs anyway, and it doesn’t matter, not really, not anymore, whatever he thinks he’s conceding by doing this, so he drops _I’m sorry_ into his mind, careful as he can. Feels Hux startle under him. 

_Why? What’s the matter?_

_Afraid._

_Of this?_ Incredulous. _Of me?_

 _Of—_ He tries to convey, without words, the sense of _ending_ , of _loss:_ someone recoiling from him, slammed doors, a rickety old freighter leaving the atmosphere, this time for good, the anticipation of it snarled in him.

 _Oh_.

Hux considers this while Kylo waits for a dismissal, a cold _you knew what this was_ , because what else could there be? They don’t— 

The hand on his hair stills, then abruptly tugs, forcing him to look up into those pale eyes, sharp as ever, assessing. Hux is frowning at him, his thoughts obscure. ( _Rain_ and something else. Humming?) After a pause, the two of them staring, not speaking, he grabs at him, trying to pull him upwards without finding much traction. Kylo moves for him, not yet hopeful, not daring that until Hux kisses him.

 Then, that knife’s edge of a smile—wicked—spreads against his lips.

_You know, if there’s more you want to try, Ren, you might have said. I would be amenable to it._

_Could take_ quite _some time, however._

* * *

 

 

**Coda**

In the past year, Hux has done considerable research regarding the nature and manifestation of humanoid sexuality; true, he’s concerned himself primarily with mechanics and applications, as is his wont, but also with the potential impacts to one’s health, including disease, injury, and safety.

Despite his comprehensive study—both academic and experiential—of these questions, he does not know if a person can, in fact, die from not coming in a timely manner. But he is quite certain that if _he_ , Armitage Hux, Grand Marshal of the First Order, doesn’t get to soon, he will commit a murder. Ideally of Kylo Ren, who’s currently subjecting him to what must be the slowest, tenderest fuck in galactic history, the utter, _utter_ bastard.

“Enough,” said bastard reproaches from behind him, where he’s sinking gently— _yet again—_ into Hux. One hand rests on the small of his back, thumb tracing along his spine. “We both know you’re loving this.”

And a year ago it would have seemed so unfair—worse than that—for Ren to know anything of the kind about him, the smallest details that make him squirm. Except, of course, Hux knows as much about _him_ , can tell that he’s close, too, that telltale spasm in his thighs, his fingers. 

“Nnnngh,” Hux replies eloquently. Wipes the sheen of drool from his mouth. Huffs a breath into his hair, blowing it out of his eyes. “Still going to k-kill you.”

“Yes,” Ren agrees. Too easily. “Are you—okay, though?” he adds. 

(Because they’ve never stopped asking that, not once in all the times they’ve done this.)

“Mm,” he says. “Just. Kylo. Now, _please_.” 

Finally, _finally_ taking pity, Ren relents, shifting his grip to his hips and thrusting, _yes_ , _hard, fast_ , into him, rocking both of them against the bed. Hux claws at the sheets while his eyes roll back and his toes curl; he’s already so close that Ren barely has to touch him before he’s spurting over his hand, orgasm almost wrenched from him, he thinks. 

He’s not quite cognizant of Ren following, filling him, moaning, or him pulling out, although he does feel that familiar, welcome weight settle over his back after. He has always liked that, especially when he’s just come from being fucked, ass twitching, the phantom sensation of Ren’s cock still in him.

“Fantastic,” Hux groans into the pillows when he can speak again. Also: “I hate you.”

“I know.” Ren kisses his hair in acknowledgment of the compliment, before moving off him. He settles close by, radiating heat, and catches one of Hux’s hands in his own. Brushes the knuckles with his lips. Flips it to give the same treatment to his lifeline, his inner wrist, his callouses. 

Hux turns his head to look at him, unable to manage more than that, and watches, curious, as Ren twines their fingers together, brings their palms flush.

“We never have,” he offers by way of explanation. 

**Author's Note:**

> Lots of love to everyone on Tumblr who tolerated my nonsense this week, and especially to [samedifference61](https://archiveofourown.org/users/samedifference61/pseuds/samedifference61) who was kind enough to ask for more after the first one.
> 
> Thanks for reading. :)


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